


Treading Water

by Talithax



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Doubt, Established Relationship, Hospitalization, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 07:35:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15383826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talithax/pseuds/Talithax
Summary: The question of how long can this go on for isn't one Will's ready to contemplate...





	Treading Water

**Author's Note:**

> ~ Narrated by Will & Self-Beta'd
> 
> ~ Not having written anything all year, I can't even remember when I wrote this... (Ooops)
> 
> ~ While my annoyance at Fallout not having Brandt in it (or, by all accounts, so much as his name being mentioned) isn't likely to diminish (EVER) any time soon, I'm still ridiculously looking forward to seeing it.
> 
> ~ Be warned. This fic can be seen as quite depressing. (Yet... I don't know. I actually quite like it.)
> 
> ~ As always, thank you to everyone who has even taken the time to leave kudos on any of my fics. :-) It really does mean a lot to me.

============  
Treading Water  
by TalithaX  
============

 

“Forty-five.”

Although it's just about the last thing I feel like doing, I come to a reluctant stop and, solely in the name of politeness, force my lips to curl upwards in a reasonable interpretation of a smile. “Excuse me?” I murmur as, with a look of surprise at, I suspect, being acknowledged, the woman peers up at me from the small flower bed she's kneeling in. Of indeterminable age and dressed in the decidedly non-gardening friendly outfit of an old blue woollen coat over an orange and yellow floral dress that looks as though it belongs in the Seventies and once grey bunny slippers that are now a decrepit brown colour, she's as much a part of Braxton as the uniformed guards on the gate are and I realise with a touch of shame that this is the first time I've actually spoken to her. She's been here, either obsessively tending to her flowers or, if the weather's inclement, pacing relentlessly back and forth in the foyer every time I've visited and, like so many other aspects of this place, I've just ignored her.

She's a human being as worthy of empathy and respect as I am, but...

I don't want to know.

I don't want to know her name or her story, and I definitely don't want to know how long she's been here.

I can, out of the corner of my eye as I hurry past, take in her old fashioned outfits, dull hair, vacant expression and grotty bunny slippers, but what I can't do is allow myself to... see... her. No eye contact or perfunctory nod of greeting. No... Nothing, really. Just another part of Braxton's landscape that I don't want to know about.

Truth be told, I still don't want to know now. I don't want to be standing here as, scratching at an already raw looking wound on her left wrist with her dirty, ragged fingernails, she gazes up at me through dull, yet at the same time... knowing... eyes that give the impression of being able to see straight through me.

“Forty-five,” she repeats as, somewhat to my instinctive horror, she holds out her right hand in the obvious hope of me stepping in to help her to feet. “Forty-five days straight you've been dutifully coming here.”

“Really? I haven't been keeping count, myself,” I reply, suppressing the urge to grimace as I take her filthy hand in mine and gently pull her upright. “Now, as I really must be on my...”

“It won't last,” she interrupts with a dismissive snort as she jerks her hand free of mine and, almost as though she feels as though my touch may have contaminated her somehow, rubs it vigorously across the front of her coat. “It never does. I've seen it time and time again. You come now out of love, duty, wishful thinking, or, perhaps even my own personal favourite, guilt, but...” Lifting her head, she gives me a hollow-eyed, resigned look and shrugs. “It won't last. This place, it... it's not for the living”

“I...” This well and truly not being something I want to talk about, I continue to smile my bland smile and, in a bid to change the subject, gesture towards her small patch of garden. “Those blue flowers are certainly lovely. Perhaps you could tell me what they...”

“It's always the same,” she mutters, cutting me off. “You all come, full of hope and conviction that this is only a minor rest stop, if you like, but then, when the days turn into weeks and the weeks turn into months, you start to see it for what it really is. A full stop. The end of the line. A home for ghosts and shadows.” Sighing she drops her gaze and goes back to picking at the wound on her wrist. “And you'll stop coming. You always do. Every day will become every second day. Then the excuses will start. Work's hectic. You can't get away. The assignment is one you can't say no to. Weeks will pass. Then months. It's just how it is. How it always is.”

“I... I'm not going to stop coming,” I state quietly as, unable to stand idly by while she makes a bigger mess out of the wound, I reach out my hand and carefully pull her fingers away. “If I'm... forty-five days into... three-thousand days... then, so be it.”

“You're still young...” Pausing, she pulls away from my hand and looks me in the eye for a few, drawn out seconds before shrugging and beginning to shuffle towards the steps that lead up to the main entrance foyer. “Young-ish, at any rate,” she murmurs, “and, you'll learn. Like I already said, this is no place for the living. It's a mausoleum full of ghosts and shadows and, if you knew what was good for you, you'd get as far away from here as you possibly could.”

“I can't,” I whisper more to myself than to the woman as, for no other reason than she's heading in the direction that I need to go, I trail after her. “So long as he's here, I'll keep coming.”

“So you say,” she retorts, giving me a cursory glance over her shoulder. “Then again, that's what they all say at first. I love you. I'm here for you. I'll never leave you. I've heard it all before. Just as I've been here when the divorce papers or postcard from Australia arrive in the mail.” Coming to a stop by the door, she positions herself directly in front of me and, as it seems to be her favourite gesture, gives another small shrug. “I don't tell you this to frighten you,” she adds with a sad smile. “It's just how it is.”

“Well, not this time,” I declare more breathlessly than firmly as I open the door and wait for her to step through it before following her inside and pulling it shut behind me. “Just... You'll see. Not every story has to end the same!”

“Hope fades,” she replies as, still smiling sadly, she turns to the left and begins to walk off. “You'll see. It always does. It's just the nature of this place.”

“I...” Unable to think of a single rebuttal to offer by way of response, I listlessly clean my hands with the liquid sanitiser by the door and, all the time feeling as though I've had the wind knocked out of my sails, watch the woman's back as she meanders, once again picking at her wrist, down the corridor. It's not that anything she's just said comes as any great surprise to me. In fact, when you strip back the raw emotion and, yes, hope, it's simply logical. Of course it is.

Life goes on.

For some.

I just didn't want to hear it, that's all. While pushing it, cold hard logic, back into the deepest, darkest corner of my mind is one thing, hearing it delivered so matter-of-factly is something else entirely.

It just makes it more... real, somehow. Real, and even more depressing. Which, given the completely fucked state of things these days, is no small feat.

Heart versus head.

Hope versus reality.

The insidious, gnawing knowledge that she's right, that this really can't go on for ever.

It's just...

… I'm not ready for it.

Not now.

Not... yet.

“Don't tell me, let me guess,” the familiar voice of a male nurse announces from behind my back as, startled back to life by someone speaking to me, I shove my still damp hands into the pockets of my winter coat and whirl around to face him. “You've just fallen foul of Sarah's... all good things must come to an end lecture,” he continues with a wry smile. “Please, whatever you do, don't take it personally. She gives it to everyone at some point.”

“Sarah?” Peering at the nurse's name badge, I see that his name is Robert, not Roger like I'd always thought it was for some reason and, for no other reason than he's smiling at me quite happily, flash him a far more practised smile in return. In his twenties and sporting the de rigueur facial hair of a hipster that makes him look as though he'd be more at home working in a too-fashionable-for-it's-own-good café than as a nurse in a glorified care home, Robert always seems to have time for everyone and, not that I have any intention of ever asking him, I wonder how he does it. How he can be so cheerful when he's surrounded, day in and day out, by such... waste.

I know I couldn't do it. That, struggling as I am to keep it together over one resident, there's no way I could care for dozens. I'm just not that strong.

“Mmm... Sarah,” Robert replies, pointing down at the dirty footsteps that trail, staining the beige carpet, along the corridor. “She of the bunny slippers that, although you'd be forgiven for perhaps thinking otherwise, are her footwear of choice for both indoors... and... outdoors. In fact, and you didn't hear this from me, she even sleeps in the damn things.”

“Oh. Clearly they... uh... work for her on some level,” I respond with a shrug. “I mean, to each their own and all that.”

“Clearly,” he agrees, rolling his eyes at the sight of the footprints. “I don't get it myself and, again, you didn't hear this from me, even the shrinks haven't been able to get a reason out of her, which, given that it was apparently something called the Rabbit's Foot that put her...”

“The Rabbit's Foot?” I interject, the surprise – or perhaps that should be... dismay – I'm feeling at this unexpected snippet coming through loud and clear in my voice. The world... Shit. It really is a small place at times. “That... Uh... Sorry...”

“Don't ask me what it is... or was... or whatever, as I wouldn't have a clue,” Robert retorts, looking up and, this time, rolling his eyes at me. “All I know is that poor old Sarah was in charge of securing it for the CIA some time in the Nineties and, well, whatever it was ended up sending her here.”

“You mean she's been here for...” Unable to say it, I fall silent.

“Twenty years next May,” Robert replies as his own smile finally slips and he gives me a solemn look. “What's more, she's not even our longest... uh... guest. That would be Peter, but... uh... he doesn't really get around much these days and just keeps to his room. Sarah though, she has her garden and, when the time is right in her mind, her... way... of talking to visitors and, while it certainly mightn't seem like it to either you or me, I honestly think she's content enough, that... this is her home now.”

“Twenty...” Still unwilling to say it, I shake my head and bite back a sigh. “She'd have seen a lot, then.”

“I think it'd be pretty safe to say she's seen everything over the years,” he confirms with a nod. “Again though, don't take whatever she said to you to heart. Yeah, she's seen it all, but, at the same time, everyone's different.”

“She's right though, isn't she...” The words fall out of my mouth in a whisper as though I've got no control over them. “At some point, everyone just... stops... coming.”

“It depends on your definition of... stops,” Robert responds, placing his hand down on my shoulder and giving it a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “Do people stop coming every day? In the case of most, of course they do. They have to. Then there are those who only come at Christmas, or for birthdays, but... they still come. It's... Listen to me. It's an individual thing that's different for everyone. Choosing to return to your own life doesn't make you a bad person though and that, above and beyond everything else, is something you're never to forget. Like Sarah, I've seen a lot, but at the end of the day you've just got to do what's right for you.”

“Well, time will tell, won't it,” I murmur more to myself than to Robert as, knowing that I've dithered long enough and need to be on my way, I pull my hands out of my pockets and cast a pointed glance at my watch. “Now, if you'll excuse me...”

“I know, I know. I'm not the one you came here to see,” Robert finishes, flashing me an unbothered smile as, with one final squeeze, he removes his hand from my shoulder. “As it happens I'd better get on to cleaning up Sarah's... uh... bunny trail before the Director spots it anyway. Just... Don't forget what I said, yeah? When all is said and done, this is as much about you as it is anyone else.”

Not wanting to disagree with him by saying that it's not, and nor has it ever been, about me at all for fear of further delaying the true reason behind me having driven three-quarters of an hour to get here, I simply offer a small, non-committal shrug by way of a response and begin to walk off. Although my visiting times adhere to no schedule and most likely go unnoticed anyway, I feel as though I've wasted more than enough time and just want to reach my final destination without crossing anyone else's path.

Braxton House. To the history buffs it was once a sprawling manor house and wheat plantation of some note that was compulsory acquired by the government during the Civil War. To those who live in the area or happen to drive past its heavily fenced and guarded acres, it's a research facility attached to the Centres for Disease Control. Government owned and perhaps just that little bit secretive, it's simply part of the landscape and not really worth thinking about. To the conspiracy theorists with their blogs, undiagnosed OCD, and far too much time on their hands, it's – as, in all their delusional wisdom they've decided to call it – Area 52. A Top Secret Government installation where all sorts of far fetched things go on. Aliens. Experimentation with Super Soldiers. A Cryogenics chamber where, amongst others, JFK's head awaits the technology to bring him back to life. One blog, Benji's favourite, actually, is even firmly of the opinion that Kennedy never died in Dallas and is in fact running the entire show. Harmless, despite being bat shit crazy in my opinion, these whack jobs chatter away on forums and weave their nonsensical theories while all the time being blissfully unaware that most of the hits on their sites come from the government agencies they're convinced are out to get them and that, truth be told, a fair number of their 'inner circle' are actually people like Benji who are being paid to keep an ever watchful eye on them.

To those who know the truth though, Braxton House is more of a nightmare than the conspiracy theorists could ever imagine.

Beautifully appointed, from its elegant décor to its lush lawns and carefully tendered trees, it's a home, as Sarah so eloquently put it, for ghosts and shadows.

The CIA and DEA know it as the Asylum. To the FBI and ATF it's the Twilight Zone, while all forms of the military go with calling it Sanctuary.

For no reason that I'm aware of, we at the IMF just call it Braxton.

Or, if the conversation is private and no participant shares an unfortunate connection with it, the...

… Nut House.

The place where mentally broken down agents or military personnel go to hopefully be put back together again.

In one respect the conspiracy whack jobs are correct in that the site actually does possess the highest security rating possible and that, no matter how much they dig, they'll never know the truth of what goes on inside its walls. Nor will they ever know the skill sets, intelligence and bravery that's going to waste before the eyes of the dedicated staff or that, sadly, plans are well under way to expand the manor house's already impressive size to include a custom built dementia wing to keep those who know far too much from ever inadvertently sharing their secrets.

Braxton House.

A glorified psych ward for the military, top grade law enforcement services, and intelligence agencies.

Although I always suspected I'd end up here myself one day, the thought of it used to terrify me.

It...

Entrenched as I now am in Braxton's inner sanctum, it still terrifies me.

Not in that it's like a scene from a horror movie with sadistic doctors and locked wards complete with padded cells and residents shuffling around in straight jackets, as it's nothing like that at all and I know that the surroundings, care, attention, and expertise here are second to none and that no one could ask for better.

It's just...

Regardless of it's beautiful tranquillity and friendly, welcoming staff, a heavy sense of hopelessness and waste seems to pervade the air and I find it as stifling as I do suffocating.

I know many are still here because, when faced with the choice of returning to the world that put them here, it's where they want to be. I also know that there are some who have been successfully restored to their former selves by the treatment they received here and that, of these success stories, a few have even returned to their own jobs. 

On a whole though, more arrive than leave. More stay because they're incapable of preparing their own meal, let alone of returning to society. More wave the white flag of defeat and retreat inside of themselves by way of self-protection because what they either saw or endured is simply too heinous or soul destroying to want to find a way back from.

Again, I fully expected to find myself taking up residence one of these days.

After Croatia I even thought it would be sooner rather than later.

I never thought...

Not for a second did I ever imagine...

It is what it is though and I don't question it any more than I attribute disbelief or confusion to it.

Everyone has their breaking point.

Everyone.

It happened.

We're here.

And it is what is.

Terrifying, suffocating, devastating, and completely and utterly out of my, or anyone else's control.

I go on because I have to, and because the alternative is too much to bear.

I persevere, because it's the path of least resistance. 

I ground myself solely in the here and now because...

… I can't fathom a future without him.

Getting in to the elevator, I ignore, as it my wont, the buttons for the first and second floors (with their hospital wings and catatonic or bed-bound patients, along with those injured as physically as they are mentally) and hit the one that will take me up to the third. A small piece of luck finally befalling me, the elevator rises both silently and directly to my required floor and, getting out of it, I smile a bland greeting at the nurse sitting behind the reception-slash-security desk.

“Hello, Agent Brandt,” she states, returning my smile with a far more genuine one of her own as she stands up in anticipating of watching me – jump through yet more security hoops – going through the motions of proving that, why, yes, I really am who I say am.

“Hello, Mary,” I reply, placing my thumb on the scanner embedded in the corner of the desk. “How are you today?” I add politely as my IMF credentials flash up on her computer screen and I turn to stare into the iris scanner.

“All's quiet in here, so I can't complain,” Mary replies, giving me a look of – 'I know, this is bullshit, but what can I do?' – understanding as her computer once again confirms she really does have Agent William Brandt of the IMF standing in front of her. “What about you?”

“Me? Uh...” Not quite up to confessing to anyone yet that I'm feeling as though I'm getting closer and closer to losing my hard fought composure, I shrug and sign my name in the log-in book. “I'm fine.”

“Uh-huh. You look it, too,” Mary retorts drily as she makes a tsking sound under her breath and walks around the desk to sling her arm around my shoulders. “Come on. I know things are pretty shit and that, along with wishing I'd keep both my arm and my opinions to myself, you probably feel as though you're treading water, but... Things could be worse, and you know it. I mean, he's still alive, which is a good starting point if you ask me, and whether you believe it or not, I can tell you right now that he's in a far better shape than a lot of the poor people who call this place home are. So...”

“I'm fine,” I repeat weakly as, resisting the urge to relax into her embrace, I gently shift away, “and... You're right. Of course you are. Things, they could be a lot worse. It... It's just...”

“It's just... What?” Mary prompts, giving my shoulder a quick squeeze as she returns to the other side of the desk. “Something is bothering you, Agent Brandt, and while I know it's not my place to...”

“I don't want to believe that everyone stops coming,” I blurt out, the words tumbling from my lips before I can stop them. “Sarah, Robert too, they... And I can't... I don't want to be reduced to a survey number or a statistic. I... I don't want to give up hope, or... or just fade away. He doesn't need me, and maybe all of this is just some big exercise in futility or avoidance, but I... I have to come, I just... I just have to...” Trailing off as it strikes me as abundantly obvious that I've – shown too much emotion – said too much, I look away and sigh. “Sorry. I never should have...”

“Everyone's different,” Mary interrupts, reaching across the desk and, before I can stop her, grabbing my hand. “Some come for a while because, even if their heart isn't in it, they feel that it's expected of them. Some come out of love and hope that, as the days drag on, slowly dies off. Some realise that, as hard as it might be to come to terms with it at first, they have to go on living their own lives.” Pausing, she tightens her hold on my hand and waits until I've reluctantly turned back to face her before, in a quiet voice, adding, “Some, however, have even been known to get a job here so they can always be there...”

“Really?” I hear the plaintive note of hope in my voice and hate myself for it.

“Really,” she confirms with a nod. “I was already a nurse at Bethesda, so getting a transfer was easy enough, and I've never, not for a second, regretted it. Whether it made a jot of difference to him I'll never know, but for a long time it was the only way I could go on...” Releasing my hand, she stares down at the log-in book for a couple of seconds before locking tear-bright eyes on mine and shrugging. “All you need to take from that is... No. Not everyone stops coming,” she mutters, gesturing for me to make my way past the desk and along the short corridor to my final destination.

“You know, that actually makes me feel a little better,” I murmur as, pushing through my regret at having awoken clearly painful memories in Mary, I walk around the desk and place my hand lightly on my shoulder. “Thank you. I... I'm sorry if...”

“It's water under the bridge,” Mary states, cutting me off as she once again gestures along the corridor. “I only mentioned it to counter the tales of abandonment told to you by Sarah, who doesn't know any better, and Robert, who does. Need, Agent Brandt, is a two way street. Even if he doesn't need you, and, let's face it, who is it to say he doesn't, yet you feel as though you need him, then... That's enough of a reason to keep coming right there in itself. Now... Go! Get going before I change the subject to wanting to feed you in the hope of putting some weight on your bones.”

“And I'd have to reply by telling you to get in line,” I respond, squeezing her shoulder by way of thanking her for her kindness and understanding before pulling my hand away and beginning to walk down the corridor. “So, as Jane and Benji, who I'm sure you've met, already have forcing food on me covered, I... I'll just say thank you once again and take my leave.” Knowing that there's nothing more that needs to be said at this point, I leave Mary sitting at her desk and walk past four of the five closed doors that make up her domain until I come to a stop in front the final one at the end. If the other rooms are inhabited, I wouldn't, having never seen the doors open or met another visitor at the desk, know it and, as always, don't spare them so much as a second thought.

Forty-five days.

Need.

Uncertainty.

Hopelessness, as much as...

… Hope.

Fear.

Gnawing, relentless, gut-wrenching fear that...

… This is it.

This is how it's forever going to be.

Just like with Sarah earlier, I feel as though I should show some interest in the shattered lives being lived out behind the other closed doors, but I can't. I just can't. It's selfish, and it's pointless, but having enough on my plate as it is I simply don't have it in me.

Taking my coat off, I drape it over my arm and, just as I've done every time I've found myself standing in this exact same position, brace myself for the next step of opening this very door for, as I've had it hammered into me, the forty-fifth time.

Only...

If you take Braxton out of the equation, it's been even longer than that.

Fifty-five days.

Six missing. Four in the IMF infirmary. Forty-five behind this door.

Eight weeks, basically.

For eight weeks I've been existing in a – void – state of perpetually suspended animation. Sure. I go through the motions of normality, and to a casual observer I may even be giving an eerily competent display of keeping it together, but I'm not. Not really. On the outside, maybe, but on the inside I'm a colossal break down just waiting to happen.

What if...

How long can I keep this up?

Too caught up in the routine, the... protective wall I've built around myself, will I even know to change?

Need.

Mary mentioned that I need him and, while I have to admit to not having thought about it quite along those lines before, I think she may well be right. I need to see him, to... see... for myself that, albeit in an altered form, he's still here, that he's not... fully... gone. I need to cling to what's left because it's ultimately preferable to the alternative.

Still here.

And while he's still here, there's still hope. Flickering, and fading, and some days harder to believe in than others, but still there.

His blood results come back clear now, and have for the past five weeks. The doctors, and there's a lot of them, studious, dedicated and perplexed in their white coats, are adamant that this is a good thing. A rather large step in the right direction, if you like. Whatever it was Petrov had first cooked up in his laboratory and then then injected in to him is out of his system and, in terms of blood work at least, appears to have no lasting consequences, so...

It's in his head. It has to be.

Not... in... his brain, because the scans prove that that too is perfectly fine and normal, but in his... head.

The, and this is my far from medical take on it, zombie-like muteness is purely by choice.

He... wants... to be like this.

To... exist, safe and sound, behind four walls. To not have to think, or worry, or... interact... with the world around him.

The world around him which, and I see no reason to sugar coat this, put him here.

The big, scary world that he's given his all to protect finally failed him and... enough is enough.

He doesn't want to, or... can't... do it anymore.

Traumatised. Broken. Devoid of the spark, willingness, or reason to keep fighting.

Part of me even gets it.

Too much for too long and, contrary to the way Hunley's prone to carrying on, he is only human.

Hell. He deserves a break. And God knows I've been trying to get him to take a holiday for long enough.

I just...

… Never thought it would come to anything like this.

This... complete, ongoing shut down.

I don't blame him. I worry about him, and, selfishly, I worry about myself and what I've lost, but I don't blame him for leaving.

Sighing, I clear my mind of all doubt and, yes, unease, and open the door. Walking in to the room, I spot him sitting, dressed in jeans and a dark green shirt and clean shaven, in the armchair and after both closing the door and hanging my coat on the rack I make my way over to him, my well practised smile once again firmly in place. The room, like everything here at Braxton, is faultless. Large, airy, and elegant with its massive bay window and everything you might need to comfortably live, hidden away from the world, it's more like an expensive hotel suite than a hospital room. While only one room and an en suite that makes my own bathroom at home look small and dated, everything is set up in a way that just works effortlessly. The living area, complete with a flat screen television, full bookcase, coffee-table and armchair, is marked off from the bed by the back of the sofa and there's enough empty floor space to walk around with ease. It's a nice room, the best, I suspect, money can buy, but I've come to hate it.

A gilded prison for a lifeless, possibly even willing captive.

“Hello, Ethan,” I murmur, leaning forward and giving his cool cheek a brief kiss that I'm quick to draw back from. He doesn't, just as I've – reluctantly – come to take for granted, give any indication of being aware of my presence and continues to gaze, blank and unseeing, directly in front of him.

To some of the doctors, younger ones mainly, he's a cause of untold fascination. Seemingly, for all intents and purposes in terms of engagement, catatonic, yet on the other hand... functioning. Independent in terms of feeding, bathing and toileting, so long as food and drink is placed in front of him and he's pointed in the right direction, but otherwise... absent. Mute. He hasn't said a word since he was rescued from Petrov's sickening clutches. Nor does he even try to communicate by either facial movements or hand gestures. Doesn't do anything, with the exception of toileting, voluntarily and seems to be perfectly content either sleeping or sitting. Will go for a walk with both direction and with someone by his side, but other than that... Nothing.

It's like he's there, and... not... there, all at the same time.

“As it's a bit too cold to go for a walk outside today,” I continue, pressing on as I know I have to, “I'm just going to sit here and read to you for a while.”

I don't, not anymore, anyway, ask if he's okay with it.

I don't...

… Ask anything.

Not if he's okay, or whether he'd like anything, or if he's pleased to see me.

I used to.

I even used to wait in hope of a response.

But not now.

Now I know better.

Now I rarely even talk and simply read to him or, if the weather's nice, bundle him up in to a coat and walk him around the grounds. It's not as though I have anything to tell him anyway. I sleep, with the assistance of a pill, and I analyse intel, and I come here, and, in my own way, I'm no more alive than he is.

So, you know, what is there to really talk about?

Traffic? Weather? The Godforsaken Kardashians? 

Reality, and this I've made absolutely clear to everyone who visits him, is never to be discussed within his hearing. If he's shut himself away by choice then, to my way of thinking, hearing about politics and disasters and missions isn't going to help him in the slightest. In fact, it could possibly even cause him to retreat even further into himself.

The same, too, goes for...

… Begging.

“I love you.”

“I need you.”

“I don't think I can go on without you.”

“Please. Come back to me.”

I keep it all to myself and, because I honestly think it's better for him, hide behind a façade of stoic pragmatism. 

If he's afraid, then he doesn't need to know of my own fears.

If he's content here, then who am I to try to draw him out from his happy place.

I'm here for him and am a constant in his life. That's all he needs to know.

Taking a seat on the sofa, I pick the book I've been reading for the past fortnight up from the coffee-table and, after opening it up and removing the bookmark, begin to read aloud from Anne Rice's, The Vampire Lestat. Holding firm to my resolve to keep reality hidden from this room, I chose, somewhat in desperation, to go with the far fetched Vampire Chronicles when I saw the series on the bookshelf because they're pure fantasy and shouldn't inadvertently offer up any cause for concern.

That, and because I can remember, even if he can't, Ethan dressing up as Lestat one Halloween for the IMF party.

I read the words in a carefully modulated tone, but I don't follow the story. They're just words strung together in sentences that I read aloud to both kill time and quieten the fear and doubt in my head. If Ethan's keeping up with the tale or has any interest in it, I wouldn't know it. He just sits there. Familiar. Handsome.

Impassive.

Hours pass like this. Today. Yesterday. Most likely tomorrow. I read, and he sits there.

It's not even boring.

It's...

… Nothing.

Then, just for something different, suddenly all hell breaks loose.

Not in here, of course not, but somewhere in Braxton.

A loud, piercing siren cries out over the stillness and the door automatically locks tight from the outside.

A Code Black.

Shut down.

Someone, somewhere has kicked off and, for the safety of everyone else, the entire facility has to go into lock down.

The first time I encountered a Code Black was... forty days ago. I was walking across the foyer when the siren started and a passing staff member pulled me into a safe room. He also explained what was going on before sharing with me the story of how one patient had actually nearly killed a visiting doctor because, to him, he'd looked like man who'd put him here. He then, perhaps because he felt as though he had to, reminded me that I was never to forget that the patients here were deeply damaged and, courtesy of their training, capable of anything.

Oh, and that there was another siren for if security had been breached and the facility was under attack.

Never forget.

This... nut house... is full of spies, and intelligence agents, and the best of the best, and...

Ethan.

My lover, best friend, and the man I want to grow old with.

He's here.

Sitting there, oblivious to the screeching racket, and...

I...

I can't...

No more.

I can't do this anymore.

Suddenly. Abruptly.

Can't pretend.

Can't carry on.

Can't...

… Keep it together.

The book slips from my fingers and onto the floor as, feeling as though I'm only just managing to stave off a breathless, gasping panic attack, I start to cry.

Sob, really.

For the very first time since all of this started, I just give up and, burying my face in my hands, cry uncontrollably. 

Braxton. No hope. Can't do this. Never going to change. Oh God, I love him so much. This is it. This, if I'm to keep sharing it with him, is our life from now on. Code Blacks. Insanity. Security.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

He deserves better.

I can't...

I'm not strong enough. Or good enough. I...

… I'm not even useful!

Too far gone to even consider trying to get myself under control, I sob and wheeze and, when the sofa dips next to me and an arm is placed around my slumped shoulders, immediately write it off as a figment of my overwrought imagination.

I want...

I want it so badly to be real that it can't be.

It just can't be.

I...

I've passed the point of no return now and, if I'm lucky, will be carted off to live out the rest of my days in the room next to his.

Then, as my throat and chest burn and my eyes sting, I feel it.

A hand, forceful to the point of almost being painful, being closed around my upper arm.

A silent plea, perhaps, to get my attention?

Jerking my head up, I sniff wretchedly and blink back tears as, to my instant horror, I discover that my imagination hasn't been playing tricks on me.

Horror.

Get that?

Not relief or delight, but 'ohmyGodIfuckinghatemyself' horror.

“I... Shit!” Roughly pushing Ethan away, I press myself up against the arm of the sofa and shake my head. “Sorry! I... Oh my God, Ethan, I... I'm so fucking sorry. I'm meant to be here for you, not... Not breaking down on you and making it all about me! I... Shit! You don't need to see...” Trailing off as my mouth can't keep up with the barrage of self-recrimination screaming in my head, I watch both numbly and in disbelief as, frowning in apparent concentration, Ethan inches closer and places his hand on my thigh.

“I... I'm just so sorry,” I whimper, any happiness I might have felt in him showing signs of life being negated by the worry I know I have to be causing him. “This is about you, not...” Falling silent as he presses his hand down harder on my thigh and shakes his head, I watch through eyes still wet with falling tears as, after a few moment's hesitation, he slowly and very deliberately mouths...

'Together. You. Me. Together.'

And...

Suddenly. Gloriously. Wondrously.

I get it.

As I pull him close and hug him as though my life depended on it, and, with a silent sigh I feel in the form of warm breath on my ear, he hugs me back, I fucking well get it.

Need.

Ethan needs to feel wanted, and connected, and as though he still has a place in things. What he doesn't need is the blandness and the stoicism I've, regardless of how pure my intentions, been feeding him.

He needs to know that he has something to fight his way back to.

It's how he is. How he's always been. There for everyone. Giving. Asking for nothing in return.

Essential.

Not locked away and lovingly wrapped in cotton wool.

And I get it.

He needs me to – stop acting – show that I need him.

“Yes, yes,” I whisper, clinging to Ethan as he rests his head down on my shoulder. “Together. Always together. Whatever you want or need, I'll be there by your side. Needing you, loving you, just... being there in whatever form you need me. Together. You're right... We just have to get through this together.”

~ end ~


End file.
